Today's Reading
Chapter 2
Only now do I understand what a shock I must've given Grandmother, stepping out of the past like that. Mum had sent her my school pictures over the years, but that summer I was fourteen, choppy curls awry, wearing the same expression of curiosity and expectation—and, let's be honest, nosiness—as another girl Grandmother had once loved, many years ago.
But I knew none of that yet, of course.
As I climbed the steps to meet her that July day, Grandmother seemed to pull herself together. She exhaled slowly and managed a wry half smile.
"Paxton will bring your things," she said. Her voice was deeper than I expected, cool and controlled. "And this must be Eva."
"Hello," I said. My own voice quavered with nervousness. I wouldn't blather. I wouldn't.
She reached out a hand like the Queen. Was I supposed to kiss it or curtsy or something? Or hug her, like other people hugged their grandparents?
No, this was a handshake. Reserved, impersonal.
"Well," she said. "Shall we?" She turned and strode down a richly paneled entrance hall toward a grand staircase. Mum and I followed.
The hall was cold and high-ceilinged, with numerous closed doors on either side. Its dark, heavy furnishings seemed designed for giant kings: a massive marble-topped table, a throne-like chair, a grandfather clock. Overhead, a huge chandelier fashioned of deer antlers did little to illuminate anything. The only natural light came from a set of narrow windows, high in the landing at the top of the stairs.
I shivered—from nervousness or cold or excitement, maybe all three.
Grandmother walked swiftly. Her height was startling. She was a head taller than Mum, at least. Her silvery hair had been swept up into a miraculous whorl, making her appear even taller, and I could tell it was long—long enough to reach below her waist. She moved, despite her age, with the confidence of an athlete.
I glanced at Mum, who'd shrunk into herself like a wary mouse. All grays and browns, she might've disappeared into the paneling. I looked away, embarrassed.
Before we reached the staircase, Grandmother turned to the right and led us into a surprisingly bright drawing room furnished in eggshell blue, with floor-to-ceiling windows and comfortable seating before a roaring fire.
"I imagine you're tired," Grandmother said, motioning for us to sit. "Mrs. Fealston will bring the tea." She lowered herself effortlessly into a cushioned chair and brushed her skirt with slender ringed fingers.
The three of us sat silently for an awkward minute. "The gardens look well," Mum finally said. I followed her gaze toward the far end of the drawing room, where immense French doors overlooked a veranda leading to formal gardens. Topiaries dotted the landscape there, too, among flowering shrubs and hedges. A long, lush lawn ended at a domed pavilion, beyond which rose a line of trees—and above that, the hills.
"Paxton says Stokes is still going strong," Mum continued.
"Yes, he's here most days, puttering about. Comes in from the village."
"Must be eighty if he's a day. Mrs. Fealston, too, for that matter." "Ninety, I think," said Grandmother grimly.
Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door. "Ah, there she is!" Mum exclaimed. She rose, eyes sparkling.
Though my mother had shared scant details about anyone else at Carrick Hall, I'd heard plenty about the longtime housekeeper, Ivy Fealston. She'd been Mum's beloved nursemaid, long ago.
A very old woman entered, trundling a tea trolley. Small and alert, like a wizened fairy godmother, she wore a plain brown dress and cream-colored apron, her white hair pulled back in a bun. As Mum stepped forward, the old woman's face crinkled into a smile.
"Mrs. Fealston!" Mum said, taking her hand. "Ah, Mrs. Joyce! So good to see you at last." "And this is Eva, obviously."
Mrs. Fealston's intelligent gaze settled on me. She froze in place, taking in my summer-tanned cheeks, my unruly hair, my eagerness. Then she released a long sigh, like a prisoner glimpsing sunshine for the first time in years. I resisted the urge to jump up and hug her. She seemed eminently huggable—unlike Grandmother.
"Eva is eager to see the house, of course," Mum continued, "but we wouldn't miss your tea for the world."
Mrs. Fealston's expression became all business. "And you're tired, no doubt. I can take Eva round the house tomorrow, after you've both had a good rest. Shall I pour?"
"Allow me," Mum said. "It's been a couple of decades, but I think I can still manage an English teapot."
Mrs. Fealston nodded and left, discreetly closing the door behind her. "But—" I began.
"She won't stay, even if we ask," Mum said, sitting back down and reaching for the tea trolley. "This is an English manor house, you see. It simply isn't done."
Either Grandmother didn't catch Mum's note of sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Mrs. Fealston feels her domain is the kitchen," Grandmother said, studying her hands. "And I don't interfere. It's a very old way of life, and not common anymore. But she'd welcome you there, Eva, I'm sure."
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